


After Pakistan

by holyfant



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, F/F
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-02-26
Updated: 2013-02-26
Packaged: 2017-12-03 16:48:06
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 351
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/700498
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/holyfant/pseuds/holyfant
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I missed the cold when I was in Pakistan,” Irene says.</p>
            </blockquote>





	After Pakistan

**Author's Note:**

  * For [drinkingcocoa](https://archiveofourown.org/users/drinkingcocoa/gifts).



> Written as a holiday drabble gift for drinkingcocoa, who cannot live without some happiness ever after. <3 Loosely connected to the world Kate and Irene inhabit in Photophobia.

“I missed the cold when I was in Pakistan,” Irene says, and when Kate looks up from her novel (almost grateful for the interruption; the story is thick and complex and the words slip away without making an impact) Irene has such a look of blank innocence on her face it almost seems as though Kate must have imagined her saying anything.

“Was that all you missed?” she hums, looking down at her book, so she won't have to look at Irene for too long and reveal immediately that she's not angry at all, not anymore. Irene already knows, probably, but a stubborn, small part of Kate wants to keep it up for as long as she can.

“Oh, yes,” Irene says, and then stretches her legs with a sound of contentment until her toes touch the edge of the coffee table. Her legs draw Kate's eyes to them, to the lines of them, the curl of her toes when she points them. “That was definitely all.” She's teasing. She's never worried about Kate, not really. She hasn't apologised, not for Pakistan, not for dying. She's never for a second thought Kate wouldn't let her undo the knots of her life again, the rim of things where Kate had tried to stitch everything closed so she could keep it contained. Sometimes it's maddening and at others it just feels good.

The sentences of her book waver and flutter in front of her eyes; the living room is warm and gently lit and it's Christmas eve, and Irene had told her to cancel all her appointments for tonight. 

“What are you reading?” Irene asks. The question is warm, and lazy.

“I don't actually know,” Kate says, then snaps the book shut. “Something posh and wordy.”

Irene smiles at her, so soft, like only Irene can; like she's giving something away, and Kate is so, so happy to have her here.

“Come here,” Irene says, low and quiet. 

Kate lets the novel slip from between her fingers, and it makes no sound as it falls to the floor, into the soft white carpet.


End file.
